Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Zack, what did they do to you in that place?”

“Well…this and that…”

---

Zack wakes not to the wind nipping at the exposed skin of his arm, but to the loss it reveals as it travels along its path. Where once a comforting weight warmed his side, a chill void has settled in its place. 

Instantly alert, Zack bolts upright and promptly brains himself against the rock outcropping serving as his makeshift shelter. The pain only serves to double the dose of adrenaline rushing through him, sharpening his senses as he scrambles from underneath the overhang and begins to search the darkness. The moon above has nearly waned to nothing, his Mako enhancements not helping to parse the pitch of night, but the hole in the center of all the black is unmistakable. The shock of blond hair, gray in the dim light, flutters like a beacon flame―and Zack could cry with the relief it fosters.

Zack has barely felt the passage of the last four years, but they are reflected in the figure before him. The boy he knew has grown little in size, but the structure of his face imitates the sharpness of burgeoning adulthood. His eyes, too, are different: once a clear blue, they are now tinged with strains of Mako. Sometimes, when Zack catches sight of himself in a pool of still water, the face staring back at him is uncanny in its amalgam of familiarity and strangeness, but the blond’s face, at least, is a comfort. For all that everything has changed, it still carries some softness of youth. 

Taking care not to startle him, Zack stands and slowly makes his way to the blond, checking their surroundings. The setup of their camp, if a cleared spot of rock can be called that, is risky at best. The mess of boulders drifting out of the landscape of dying forest allows for far too many opportunities for an ambush, but a nook tucked away toward the ground is safer, what with Shinra owning the skies. The assurance of solid rock at their backs, too, goes a long way to grant Zack enough peace of mind to rest, even if his subconscious remains ever watchful. 

Eyes finally grown accustomed to the dark, Zack is struck by the unfamiliar position of the blond’s limbs. Only a couple of yards away from their shelter, he sits atop his folded legs, as though he fell to his knees and melted in on himself. It is rare for him to walk around in the first place, let alone move, but Zack is most fixated on the way his hands rest listlessly on the rocky ground, palms facing the sky in entreaty, fingers curled inward. His head, usually slumped to the side or toward his chest, is craned back, appealing to the heavens. 

Unable to tolerate the stillness any longer, Zack crouches, drops a gentle hand on the blond’s shoulder, and gives him a little shake, just enough for him to feel it―if he can feel anything at all―but the motion only unbalances him, tipping his head forward. In all the black and gray of the night, the only color is found within the slackness of his expression: a splash of iridescent blue-green.

“Cloud?” 

For a moment, the blue-green flickers in a semblance of lucidity, and Zack loses all breath as Cloud’s lips part and a letter not unlike a Z creeps into the shape of his mouth. But, in the next moment, Cloud’s jaw relaxes. The blue-green is just as unwavering and blank, and the pinpoint pupils remain contracted to the point of nonexistence. 

Zack’s heart breaks―but it has been breaking a little more each day that his friend abides out of reach. It is the hope, he knows, that creates the longest and deepest fissures, but between the choice of hope and surrender… Well, there is no choice. 

Releasing a steadying exhale, Zack lets go of Cloud’s shoulder and musses his hair, finding comfort in the familiar ruffling motion. “What are you doing out here, huh? Nearly scared me to death.” He waits, listening to an imagined reply. “Yeah, I guess fresh air is a pretty good way to deal with nightmares, but wake me up first next time, okay?” 

There is no response, not to the request nor to the hand stilling in the mess of blond hair. Zack is helpless to the pinch of guilt that nips at him. It is one thing to break personal boundaries when the target can easily duck away, laughing, but it is another to do so when they are not even cognizant. Even if Cloud were awake, Zack is not sure that he would appreciate the gesture. Despite the stars glimmering in his eyes whenever they spoke, Cloud is, by all accounts, skittish and withdrawn. There must be only so much human contact one such as him can tolerate, especially after literally being dragged all across Gaia. 

With a huff, Zack retreats, crossing his arms before huddling next to his friend for warmth. The wind is colder than usual tonight, the boulders faring badly in sheltering them from its bite. Thanks to the Mako, it is bearable, but it is not conducive to peaceful rest, so Cloud will just have to suffer contact for a little while longer. Midgar, at least, looms ever closer.

“Alright, sunshine, let’s get you back in bed,” Zack announces and then rises before falling back into a few squats, generating heat. On the final squat, he slides his arms under Cloud’s knees and shoulders, stands with a dramatic huff, and approaches their pitiful shelter. “Next time, we’ll book a room in a classy inn, for sure. Just imagine: pillows stuffed with real feathers, running water―the works.” Delicately, Zack nudges Cloud’s temple with his own, grinning. “Maybe even room service.”

With precision, Zack lowers Cloud beneath the outcropping, careful not to nick him against the slate, and deposits him by the wall before joining him. Back turned to the world, he nestles Cloud up against him, wrapping an arm around his waist. The wind steals so much body heat from them, but the space in between them, at least, can last the entire night. 

As an afterthought, Zack raises his free arm and locks it into the first. If Cloud moves again, he will not be caught unawares. The spikes of Cloud’s hair, softer than a chocobo’s feathers, tickle the underside of his chin. Quietly, he releases a sigh.

“Night, Cloud.” 

Zack does not sleep much more that night.

---

The most arduous part of being on the run is not having to elude Shinra―it is having to survive all the moments in between. Shinra’s cache of resources and agents is endless, whereas Zack has only the Buster Sword, a catatonic Cloud, and a ragtag collection of supplies, the latter of which he has been forced to abandon several times to facilitate a quick escape. To say that they are half starved is perhaps an understatement. 

Most of their fare comes from the land itself, procured either through foraging or hunting. A sword is perhaps not the most ideal weapon for hunting game, but it is more reliable than launching himself at a deer’s neck, hoping that his weight and the momentum will be enough to crack its spine―not that the former boasts a high success rate either. When his steps are more stumble than stride, there is no time for finesse―there are only two empty stomachs and a desperation cultivated from the fear of leaving someone important undefended. 

Whenever possible, Zack acquires provisions―vegetables, mostly, as they are harder to come by in the wild―from the settlements they pass on their journey. Rather, he steals them. Idealistic notions such as honor, it turns out, quickly lose their sheen when your friend is wasting away before your eyes. An occasional kind soul would have perhaps shared their meal with them, if for a price, but Zack takes few chances these days, especially after Cissnei caught him only feet away from his parents’ house in Gongaga. 

Still, his hauls cannot even be deemed as such―they are small, pitiful offerings that more often than not bypass his own mouth to land in Cloud’s. However, the first time he amassed a feast―thanks to a stroke of luck and ingenuity―he could not resist the temptation. In between administering small bites, already partially chewed, to Cloud’s mouth, he gorged, crying into the tender meat. His body, unused to the excess, protested, and soon, Zack lost all of it in painful heaves. Cloud had solely escaped the same fate because Zack had, for once, not waited for him to finish first, what with how Cloud was only able to eat slowly. Zack stewed in guilt that night, having to wait to continue feeding Cloud. Water had not been among the bounty, and he was loath to taint Cloud’s portion with the taste of bile. He reluctantly bit into a tart pastry to be rid of the acid coating his tongue.

It is ironic, Zack thinks, that, if not for the Mako pushing their bodies onward after they have already met their limits, they would undoubtedly be dead by now. Cloud would be dead by now. Of course, if not for the Mako, Cloud would not be catatonic in the first place. But, if not for Hojo and all the scientists tinkering with their insides, Cloud would not have survived the wounds he suffered at Sephiroth’s hand. The cycle of factors and consequences brings a pain to Zack’s head if he thinks of it overlong.

Zack exhales steadily, pressing his palms against his eyelids. His stomach is whining quietly even after devouring the last of their supplies, and his legs are sore from traversing a stretch of particularly perilous cliffs while balancing Cloud on his back, the Buster Sword strapped to the blond’s in a facsimile of a shield. It had been a nightmare trying to keep Cloud from pitching off backward with the added weight. A more logical option would have been to leave the sword and make two trips, but the wastelands are full of monsters. Cloud cannot be left alone for too long, not even for the scant chance of a meal, let alone a venture for an abandoned sword. 

Besides, although the thought of food entices, there is no game to be had in these lands―none but the monsters, and, hunger aside, Zack cannot stomach the notion of eating their flesh. With a lurch, he wonders if it would count as a form of cannibalism if some of those creatures, in truth, used to be humans. After all, Angeal had been so certain that SOLDIERs were nothing but monsters flooded with Mako. With all that he has seen, Zack wonders about himself, wonders if, according to his late mentor, he is branded as such, what with all the Mako in him. If Cloud is.

Once, Aerith had spoken to him about SOLDIERs, not recognizing the glow of his eyes. Scary, she had said. They fight, and they love it.

When Zack had first joined Shinra’s army, he had, naturally, expected to fight, but he had never signed up to become a murderer. Full of boyhood dreams, he had only ever been in it for the glory, for the chance to heroically help those in need. That was before, of course, he realized that Shinra only ever helps its own. Zack was a fool, and perhaps he is still a fool, but he has not yet become a monster. He felt no joy in granting Angeal his death, nor did he revel in cutting down Genesis. If he is a murderer, then he is a reluctant one. 

Regardless, none of that will matter if Zack cannot survive this. After months of toil, he is simply and utterly tired. He is tired of not sleeping, of eating so little, of talking to the air, and of pressing his fingers to Cloud’s pulse when he breathes so shallowly that he might as well be dead. He is tired of running and running. And running. But, above all, he is tired of being a pawn in Shinra’s game. 

For all Zack knows, they are being corralled to Midgar like docile bovine, but he chose Midgar as their destination because of a letter warped with salt and the scent of lilies, and he has not been able to shake that decision. The thought of Aerith at the end of this journey warms like a candle-lit window of a cottage in a barren, night-soaked field. The initial need to see her was knee-jerk, a natural reaction to her hurt, but now, Zack understands that she is their last hope, someone that just might be able to hide them. To heal Cloud. To help. 

However, despite Angeal’s attempts to train it into him, Zack was not born to strategize long-term campaigns. In his time at Shinra, he never bothered asking “why” before following an order―the perfect, mindless soldier. Now, at the cusp of the end of their journey, Zack tries, but he can only anticipate so many of Shinra’s machinations. At least Midgar, with all its labyrinthian charms, might be able to mask them, but they must reach it first.

Between them and the city stretches a swath of empty wasteland. The idea of walking said distance resonates like the opening bars of a requiem.

With a sigh, Zack glances down at Cloud sleeping in his lap, having let him rest after their meager lunch. Mindlessly, he lets his hand gravitate toward the blond spikes and fiddles with them, focusing on each strand sliding across the leather of his glove. Nighttime might be the key, he decides. Nighttime and stealth. Of course, it would mean having to wait until morning for the Sector 5 gates to open, but as long as they keep out of sight of any Shinra helicopters, they might have a chance. 

And, if said chance leads to their survival, then Zack might stop feeling like a failure. 

Zack grimaces, shutting his eyes in shame. The fact is, for all his bravado, he never did manage to save anyone. Not Angeal, not Genesis, and certainly not Sephiroth. Nibelheim, before Shinra rebuilt it to conceal the incriminating evidence, had been reduced to cinders. Its townspeople had all died, the ones who were not struck down in the first wave consumed by the flames. As far as he knows, he and Cloud are the only ones who survived the massacre. Zack cannot let all that sacrifice go to waste. 

Thus, Cloud has to live. There is simply no other option, no lifetime wherein Zack will accept his own survival if the price can only be paid in Cloud’s blood. He has no other way to atone. 

Below, Cloud’s breathing has begun to quicken, reflecting a change in awareness. Drawing his hand away, Zack leans forward, looking in on his bleary-eyed face. Most of the time, he can barely track the difference between sleep and wakefulness in his friend, but he nonetheless welcomes any indication of life. He likes to imagine that, somewhere in the fathoms of his subconscious, Cloud must still hear him―and that it brings him comfort.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he chirps, only to squint up at the sky. “Or…good afternoon, I guess.” Cloud’s response consists of a slow blink, which is more encouraging than his usual lack of any. “You can go back to sleep, if you want. We won’t be moving out until dark.”

And then…Cloud closes his eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly sideward, pressing against Zack’s thigh with an exhale.

Zack frowns, brows knitting, and reaches out a shaking hand. Before it can touch Cloud’s cheek, the horizon plays a distant melody of a rumbling engine and a crackly radio, stealing his attention. Distracted by the unexpected boon―A truck, Cloud! Can you believe our luck?―he forgets all about the gentle nudge and quiet huff. 

---

A single bullet hitting the hood of the truck is enough to break the little hope Zack dared to harbor.

Loath to endanger the kind driver, Zack screams for the man to brake and then grabs Cloud before vaulting from the truck bed, nearly stumbling as he lands on loose gravel. As the truck speeds off, leaving a shroud of dirt in its wake, all he can focus on is the litany of sniper sniper sniper clamoring in his skull as he propels Cloud forward. They could move faster if he were to carry Cloud in his arms, but they must already form a conspicuous target. No need to make the sniper’s job easier. 

Thankfully, the safety of the crags soon rises around them, sheltering them from the bullets. Crouching, Zack slips Cloud’s arm off his shoulders and props him against the rock wall before leaning back. He stills, staring. Cloud does not look back.

If it would not give away their position, Zack would scream. His dreams of the future were a welcome respite from reality, for all that they lasted the length of a conversation. Outside this fragile haven, a portentous pall spreads through the air, tasting of a coming storm. He knows that he cannot let himself think any more thoughts, nor can he dwell. He has already made his choice, regardless of how this will end.

With a smirk that barely hides a grimace, Zack extends an arm and ruffles Cloud’s hair, promising himself that this will not be the last time he does so. He is rougher than usual, Cloud’s head jerking about like a puppet’s on a length of jostled twine, but the gesture is grounding. Zack feels stronger for having done it. 

He stands, the Buster Sword’s heavy weight at his back, and turns to leave before he can change his mind. And stops―is stopped. Whatever caught him tugs at the fabric of his pants, insistent and determined. Fearing to hope, he spins around and slams down onto his knees, gravel burning him upon impact. 

There. Cloud’s eyes, once preternaturally blue-green, zero in on Zack’s face, his pupils dilated to more natural levels. His hand fell away from Zack when the latter dropped to the ground, but his fingers twitch and clench in a staccato rhythm, waking. Unthinkingly, Zack takes the abandoned hand in his and frames Cloud’s face with his other, providing support as the blond cranes his head. 

“Cloud, sunshine, hey,” Zack whispers, voice breaking. Cloud’s skin, wind-chafed and grimy, is warmer than it has been since Nibelheim, noticeable even through the fabric of his glove. The strokes of Zack’s thumb only warm it further. “Can you hear me?” 

“Can you hear me,” Cloud repeats, tone strange and distant. It is not an exact response, but it is an answer nonetheless, and Zack will take just about anything, here at the end of the world. Cloud’s pupils are flickering across Zack’s face, his brows furrowing in what appears to be concentration. 

“Cloud,” Zack repeats, joy crumbling the foundations of his resignation, “you do not know how happy I am to see you right now. To see you awake.” He laughs, selfishly knocking his forehead into Cloud’s, starved of reciprocated contact. Cloud makes a little hum, a barely perceptible one that emits from the base of his throat. 

After months and months of emptiness, the sound is steeped in the dregs of a miracle.  

Suddenly, the urge toward flight is nearly inescapable, but it is with a pang of bloodcurdling fear that Zack registers the shouts of soldiers in the too near distance. Not only would they be shot down if they ran, but their hiding place would be discovered if he did nothing. In other words, Zack has overstayed his welcome here. Thus, summoning all the calm remaining in his raging heart, Zack grasps Cloud’s head between both hands and catches his wandering gaze. 

“Cloud, I need you to listen very carefully. I need you to stay hidden. Stay out of sight, and stay safe. Can you do that for me?” 

Zack holds his breath as Cloud opens and closes his mouth several times, expression lost. They are so close that his eyes have to dart between Zack’s own. In the end, he parrots back only a single word: safe. 

Zack would give a decade of his life to remain here indefinitely, but his time has run out. The longer he stays, the less the repeated word retains its validity. 

Sliding his hands from Cloud’s cheeks into his hair, Zack falls against him, face tucked into his neck, and lets himself just…rest there, for a moment. Cloud’s steady breaths billow against his skin, soft as down. He thinks that he feels a touch on his side, but it is so light that it might as well be a fragment of a dream. 

“Z-Zack.” 

Eyes burning, Zack unleashes a broken laugh. Suddenly, he yearns to be anywhere but here. So, with a final squeeze and a parting “stay safe,” he rips himself away from the embrace and runs toward fate. 

He is ready.

--- 

Mako energy has the capacity to power entire cities, but even it can falter if its conduit is a construction of flesh and bone. Zack knows that he is not invincible, per se, but his boyhood self always believed it. Mouth full of liquid metal, he rekindles this belief. At the close of his third wind, it might be the only thought that can carry him through to the end.

The cohort of Shinra infantrymen has dwindled to a number that would not normally pose a challenge. Normally, Zack has not spent what feels like a lifetime hacking away at soldiers blindly following orders. His first instinct is to pity them, as he was once like them, but he can only harbor so much guilt over their deaths when they do not return the favor. It takes little extrapolation to see that Zack and Cloud, as they are, pose no threat to Shinra. After everything they have suffered, Zack just wants to be left alone―just wants to live. 

Dodging a bullet, Zack cuts through the nearest soldier before raising the sword to block an entire volley. Teeth gritted, he angles it to ricochet the bullets back to their points of origin, but they lose too much momentum as they hit the metal and therefore miss their targets. It is frankly a shock that they do not lodge into the sword and riddle it with cracks. Not for the first time, Zack wonders just where Angeal’s family acquired this weapon.

The air is electric, a storm nearly upon them. For all that the ominous, gray cloud cover looms over the land, Zack is grateful for the cool reprieve. Keeping the sword in a defensive position, he steps backward, hoping to steal a respite in the scant distance, if only for a moment. Any longer and he will have to acknowledge the blood loss, the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm him, and the way it is becoming painful to take full breaths. 

Zack never promised Cloud that he would return. He worries whether he set himself up for failure.

Six infantrymen are closing in on him, spread out in an inverted wedge formation. Soon, Zack will not only be unable to protect both flanks at once, but will also be trapped, for the ground only a few feet behind him cuts off in an unforgiving fashion. At this juncture, he might still survive such a fall, but he cannot risk the soldiers finding Cloud while he is otherwise engaged. He has no choice but to stand his ground or advance. 

In a place separated from time and mortal thought, the scales tip the other way.  

One of the soldiers―his captaincy proudly displayed on his uniform―takes pause before calling for a halt. He stills, head tilted as though listening. Suspicious, Zack watches as the captain orders his lieutenant with a short bark, the two advancing in the opposite direction and leaving only four soldiers guarding him. Zack knows that he should take advantage of this distraction, but he can already sense the Mako working to pour relief into his aching flesh. It cannot heal the wounds, but it can mask them, and that just might suffice. 

Then, Zack’s pain does not matter anymore, for his world crumbles into pieces.

The soldiers do not return empty-handed. Trailed by the lieutenant, the captain drags a stumbling Cloud onto the battlefield. Rejoining the ranks, he tosses Cloud to the ground in the center of the wedge, where the blond lands with a gasp, discarded. As Cloud struggles to right himself, the captain readies his rifle and points it at him. 

Zack cannot breathe. Staring at the end of the rifle barrel, he cannot process anything but that the soldier is aiming precisely at the back of Cloud’s head in point-blank range. Not even the sight of Cloud shifting to his knees, unaided, can lift the fog. 

Something… Something in Zack’s mind shifts. The something is an inevitable, ineffable endnote to an agonizing sequence of innumerable days. This nameless thing trembles in tune with every inhale of his lungs, with every blink of his eyes, with every…beat of his heart. Its timing is…unfortunate. 

“Drop the sword!” orders the captain, startling him into clarity. “Surrender!” 

And…well. The price of freedom is steep―and Zack is unwilling to pay it. 

Without hesitation, Zack drops the Buster Sword and raises his arms, palms facing outward. An iota of shock ripples throughout the soldiers, but it dissipates promptly. At a command from their captain, the men brush up their stances, weapons snapping back to aim at Zack from where they listed as the scene played out. They do not order him to his knees, nor do they approach with a pair of cuffs.

Of course not, Zack thinks with dismay, for he has just unwittingly surrendered to a firing squad. They will not be taking them back to the lab after all. 

For a second, he is grateful that their guns are solely aimed at him, loath to witness Cloud’s execution, before berating himself for the feeling. To die second, after all, is to die alone, and how could he ever do that to Cloud? Besides, why should Zack be granted the privilege of dying first when he was the one to fail everyone he has ever cared about? He longs to apologize to Cloud, but he cannot find the words, speechless in the face of death. 

I don’t want to die like this.

Smiling bitterly, Zack drops his gaze to his friend in anticipation of the end, only to find that Cloud is already looking back at him. The soldiers are all focused on Zack, so they fail to notice the way Cloud’s eyes flick to the side, targeting the closest man on Zack’s left. A strategist he may not be, but Zack’s instincts usually serve him well: none of this is an accident. 

Zack nods. 

When Cloud moves, Zack waits just a moment―just long enough to act on the apex of confusion―before shooting forward to snatch up the abandoned Buster Sword, already preparing his attack as he avoids the errant gunfire. Meanwhile, Cloud lunges for the marked soldier in a burst of unexpected speed, twisting to the side to grab hold of his rifle. Forgoing a frontal assault, he simply puts his hands over the trigger and barrel and lets the recoil do its work, incapacitating the soldier. Under the cover of Cloud’s defensive volley, Zack arcs the sword over his hunkered form and into the stunned soldier’s helmet, smashing it into his face. Before the man even hits the ground, Zack has stationed himself in front of Cloud, sword held up in lieu of a shield. 

Cloud, with his stolen firearm, has made quick work of expanding the battleground: one soldier―the captain, Zack notes―lies squirming not far away, hands clutching at his throat, whereas the rest have retreated several feet, breaking formation. No longer in melee range, Zack tightens his grip in preparation for the bullets flying toward them. 

Cloud, Zack thinks, heart singing in his chest with too complex of a melody to parse. Cloud took Sephiroth down after Zack had failed―he will see them through to the end. 

The next few moments are a tangle of minute calculations and jolting adjustments of the sword as a rain of metal crashes against them. The din is pockmarked by the occasional burst of fire from beside Zack. He feels the burning barrel of the rifle nestled against his side, his only indication that Cloud remains whole. He is saving his bullets, Zack realizes―the Shinra soldiers are firing wildly, whereas Cloud is taking care to aim, timing his shots to Zack’s defensive maneuvers. 

One man goes down, leaving four, just as Zack angles the sword diagonally, standing in place as a barrier against the onslaught. He pays for it right away with a bullet to the thigh. Luckily, it misses his femoral artery, but the agony is inescapable. It awakens every wound the Mako has been placating, nearly crippling him. For a terrifying moment, Zack’s vision whites out.

When it returns, three soldiers remain standing―and Zack feels the barrel of the gun against his side slide all the way down until it rests against his leg. Pushing the pain aside, Zack bends his knees to better shield them both. He dares not turn. 

“Cloud,” he manages, barely able to muster up enough air. 

Zack hears what can only be described as a frustrated grunt, but, he notes with relief, it carries no hurt. “M’fine,” Cloud confirms. “Legs can’t hold me up anymore. Focus.” 

Zack does not need to be told twice. Their ranks depleted, the soldiers begin to advance, smelling blood in the air. The more fool them. In a few short steps, they will be nearly in melee range, vulnerable to his attacks. So what if his wounds are catching up to him? Everything is as it should be. Zack has never given sacrifice much thought, but, standing in between death and Cloud, he understands the appeal. 

I don’t mind dying like this, he thinks, words echoing like a warped refrain. 

Cloud’s next shot lands in the leftmost soldier’s shoulder, but it is followed by the telltale click of an empty magazine. There is no time to scour the pockets of the dead man who lies behind them, so Zack falls back on the only option they have. 

“Get behind that corpse!” he barks, waiting for the frantic scuffle of boots against rock before he lunges forward. Zack does not even feel the pain at his midsection as he exposes his flank. One bullet in him is one fewer in Cloud. 

Zack is already half in the grave, so he takes little care to avoid the soldiers’ final attempts at bringing him down. All he needs are three expert swings. The wounded man goes down first, if only because he is nearest, but the others require more finesse. Zack’s body understands what is happening to it, but it is kind enough to grant him just enough strength to finish this. 

When the last Shinra soldier lies motionless at his feet, Zack wonders if he himself might already be dead―he feels terrifyingly light, as fragile as a ghost. Above him, the sky finally breaks. The weight of the raindrops proves to be his tipping point, beckoning him toward the ground, but Zack forces himself to turn and stagger back to his friend’s side. Cloud, in the middle of rolling the corpse away from himself, glances up at him as he approaches. 

He smiles.

And, gods, Zack never thought he would see this again. “Sunshine” was never a teasing moniker, nor was it a reference to Cloud’s hair. No, it was always just that: a smile worthy of the sun peeking out from the horizon after the longest night. 

The smile slips away when the heaviness drags Zack to his knees. Zack rasps out a laugh, sword falling out of his grasp, and catches himself with his other arm as he tilts backward. Looking down, he finally allows himself to assess the damage, but his eyes only confirm what he knew all along. When he dares to glance back up, Cloud is already there, face only inches away and gaze fixed on the gush of red. The Mako has surrendered to the inevitable, no longer straining to stem the bleeding. 

“Zack?” Cloud whispers. He is so quiet that Zack almost fails to hear him over the ringing in his ears. 

“He-ey, sunshine,” Zack drawls, dredging up a smile just for him. “Great work out there.” 

With shaking hands, Cloud reaches out to his torso and frames the most recent wound. His stare grows distant as his gloves stain with red. Zack fears, suddenly, that he is losing him to catatonia again, that he has doomed Cloud to a slower death via starvation. But, in the next moment, Cloud locks eyes with his, and his fears are allayed. Zack is not fine, but Cloud will be. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Zack whispers, reaching out, but he has barely grazed the skin of his arm when Cloud jerks out of his grasp, not even sparing a backward glance as he wrests himself away from his side. 

“Cloud?” Zack asks the empty air. The arm scarcely holding him upright finally gives out, dropping him to the unyielding ground. He whimpers at the fresh wave of agony. 

If this were a different story, Zack thinks, he would be using his last moments to remember kind, green eyes and a sweet smile. He would be staring out into the raining sky, life running out of him, while making peace with the fact that he would never see his first love again. If this were a different story, Zack would not be left empty-handed, crying out as his friend stumbles away into the remnants of a battlefield. He would not be praying for that blond head to turn, aching to capture the final sight of a cherished face before locking it behind two lids. 

No, this does not feel like a fitting end to this story at all―and Zack overflows with the one childish thought that this is unbearably unfair. In the rare moments that he, as any soldier must, contemplated his death, he never imagined that he would die alone.

All too soon, Zack’s vision grays out, no longer registering the blond blur occasionally darting across his line of sight. With a stuttering sigh, he surrenders, letting his eyes fall shut. It’s okay, he repeats to himself. Cloud is the only one he ever managed to save, but at least he will remain to remember that Zack died a hero. It is enough―it will have to be enough.

He waits, listening as the sound of wingbeats steadily fills the air, and therefore thinks nothing of the feather-soft touch at his jaw. Still, he does not understand when that selfsame touch parts his lips. His mouth fills with liquid, but he has forgotten how to breathe, so he does not choke. And then, just as quickly, he remembers.

With a ragged gasp, he fills his lungs, and the wingbeats fade into the distance until all he can hear is harsh panting above him. When Zack opens his eyes, his world is momentarily green, sparkling and ringing with rejuvenation. The green light escapes to the edges of his sight, making way for the glow of Mako eyes boring into his own, and Zack can do nothing but stare in turn. Even deafened by the pain of wounds vying for his attention, he can pick out the notes of Cloud’s desperation. It has been so long since he has witnessed so much feeling on his friend’s face. Helpless against it, Zack smiles―and promptly winces his eyes shut in pain. One healing potion will do in a pinch, but Zack could not imagine even rolling over right now, let alone walking. 

He is almost certain that he loses time. One moment, he is tracking the remote scurrying of feet, and the next, a hand is holding his nape and the lip of a potion bottle is touching his mouth. Zack rations this one, draining it in short sips as his stomach cramps with the increasing volume, life streaming into him. When the bottle is empty, Zack carefully shifts to his side and props himself up on an elbow, allowing himself a moment to take stock. His range of vision consists solely of Cloud’s thighs and his trembling hands hovering uncertainly in the air, potion discarded. 

Zack is not yet entirely whole, but he has never felt farther from death.

He opens his eyes, unsure of when they drifted closed, to gray bedrock. Cloud―half running, half crawling―is already a quarter of the way across the battlefield, heading toward no-man’s-land, where the density of bodies is at its thickest. Still catching his breath, Zack watches in awe, transfixed by the increasing wildness of Cloud’s movements, by how he frantically searches a corpse before moving on to the next. Zack knows that he should be resting, but his friend is clearly in need of reassurance; in light of his panic, standing and stumbling toward him is the easiest thing in the world. 

Although Zack aims to quickly close the distance between them, Cloud’s search expands at a faster pace, slowed only by the number of corpses he must rifle through. As such, by the time Zack finally catches up to him, he does not recognize the manic glint in Cloud’s eyes―but he suspects that he has seen it reflected back at him in the metal of his broadsword. 

“Cloud,” he gasps, dropping onto his backside with a huff. 

Cloud spares him a glance before returning his focus to turning out a foot soldier’s pockets. Voice breaking, he whispers, “I can’t find any more.” It is not a surprise: potions are rationed even in Shinra’s military. Only the high-ranking officers are allowed a supply, and even then, Zack made certain that they would need to use them. 

“Cloud, it’s okay.” 

Cloud, features twisted, snarls and tosses aside what appears to be an empty cartridge. “It’s not fucking okay.”

Before Cloud can escape his reach once more, Zack practically launches himself at the blond and clutches his shoulders in a death grip. “Cloud,” he repeats, allowing himself to feel the joy of the name in his mouth, of being alive to say it. “I’m not going anywhere. You saved me. It’s enough.”

It was enough. We were enough.

For a long moment, Cloud simply watches him, face blank, only to inhale sharply and throw himself forward. With a startled, breathless laugh, Zack welcomes the head ducking into his neck and the arms slipping around his waist. The actions put pressure on his remaining wounds, but he can hardly care. Zack has not been held like this in…in years. He does not remember being starved of touch, but his body does, and it aches. Eyes burning, he lets his tears fall freely, grateful for the relief. 

Longing for a proper embrace, Zack encircles Cloud’s shoulders and tugs him forward, rubbing his back when the blond releases a quiet sob. Seemingly embarrassed, Cloud retracts a hand to press the sound back into his mouth, only to jolt. Nestled as closely as they are, Zack registers it immediately, and he pulls back to see Cloud staring at his left hand in horror―the glove is covered in dirt and Zack’s blood. His mouth is stained red from where he touched it. 

In that moment, the nameless something possesses Zack. Without a care, he reaches out, slides off the offending glove, and throws it away. Thankfully, Zack manages to reassert control of the feeling before it can tend to Cloud’s bloody mouth, but the gesture is enough to snap the blond out of his trance. Seemingly eager to be rid of it, Cloud removes his right glove and pitches it toward its twin as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. When he is done, he tucks both hands against his torso, as if afraid to return them to Zack’s waist. 

Zack should say something, but no words could encapsulate the euphoria of sitting here before his friend, nigh on whole and utterly alive. He was so certain, so many times, that this was it―he had been prepared to die. Now, looking down at Cloud, he lets himself think about the future, and―gods, is he ready for it. 

“Your, your shirt is covered in blood, too,” Cloud mutters, eyes cast down to Zack’s chest. He is right―the fabric is not only stained dark, but also riddled with holes.

Zack snorts, shaking his head slowly. “Sure, sunshine, but I’m not gonna be taking it off.” 

The way Cloud’s eyes crease as he rasps out a surprised laugh is worth every bullet he suffered today. Involuntarily, Zack clenches his fingers against Cloud’s back. They should move―Shinra might have reinforcements hidden away somewhere―but Zack decides that they can linger here for just a little while longer. They have earned it. 

--- 

“Any other day,” Zack drawls, “we might just be two drunks stumbling home,” and then nearly trips, inexplicably proving his point. His reserves have dwindled to practically nothing, so he is functioning purely on a shot of glee, elated to be alive.

“I never had a chance to get drunk,” Cloud answers quietly, paying careful attention to the ground as they slowly traverse the wastelands. 

They are propped against each other like two playing cards: if one were to fall, the other would swiftly follow. As it is, Cloud may have avoided injury, but not even Mako can fully combat months of muscle atrophy. Their journey thus far has progressed in fits and starts, one or the other needing occasional breaks. The weight of the Buster Sword on Zack’s back, unsurprisingly, is not helping―their empty stomachs more so. Cloud has kept silent regarding food, but it is only a matter of time until hunger catches up to him; Zack has already passed the point of noticing. 

“Never?” Zack squints at Cloud, trying to recall him mentioning any particular nights of debauchery, but the blond was never the socializing type―or, perhaps his fellow soldiers never invited him out in the first place. No wonder he was so enthusiastic when Zack extended his own invitation back in Junon. “Eh, you didn’t miss much.” He shrugs the shoulder that Cloud is not leaning on, but the gesture still jostles them both, nearly toppling into each other. 

Sharing a wordless glance, they tighten their holds on each other and gradually ease themselves down. Zack removes his sword and, with a low groan, stretches out on the ragged ground, crossing his arms behind his head in a playful show of nonchalance to hide the fact that moving hurts. It seems to do the trick, as Cloud rolls his eyes from where he has sat down beside him. 

While they rest, Zack keeps an eye and an ear out for any patrolling helicopters. He has not spotted one yet, but they are in trouble if he does―there are few boulders out here large enough to conceal them both. They can only hope that the setting sun will mask them in the final push to Midgar. The door to Sector 5 is painfully close: as long as they reach it before nightfall, it will open for them―that is, if they can reach it all. Although he is reluctant to admit it, his remaining injuries are taking a deeper toll on him than he expected. As far as he can gauge, they are largely internal, but those tend to be the most dangerous. Still, Midgar will have curatives, he tells himself. 

Hiding a wince, Zack turns toward Cloud, who is staring off into the wastelands, an odd expression on his face. “Hey, sunshine, what do you remember?”

Cloud blinks rapidly before tilting his head. “From before, or the last thing I remember?” 

“The second one.” 

“You, mostly,” Cloud answers, rubbing at his temple. 

Sensing the change in mood, Zack sits up, shifting to close the gap between them. It must be obvious how starved of attention, of affection, he is, but Zack has always been able to get away with breaking personal boundaries―a result of amicable sincerity, perhaps. At least Cloud is now conscious and can scoot away, should he wish to. And yet, when Zack nudges his shoulder, Cloud gently nudges back. He smiles; it is heartening, to say the least. 

“We are,” Cloud starts, brows furrowing, “on the run? From Shinra?” 

Zack nods. He crosses his arms over his bent knees and drops his chin on a forearm. “Yeah. Do you remember the lab?” 

It takes a moment, but Cloud is soon nodding slowly in return. Zack is aware that he himself lost so much time to Shinra, that they kept him sedated for gods know how long. The memories he has retained of the lab, however, he has buried away deep within the vaults of his mind. He has no need to return to them, even if he unwillingly visits them in his nightmares. It is a blessing, then, that Cloud seems to recall so little. 

“The clearest memories I have are of Nibelheim,” Cloud admits, head drooping as Zack’s heart sinks in dismay. “Sephiroth…and what he did to my home. Everything after that feels foggy, but I remember you.” 

As Zack watches, Cloud raises a hand to his abdomen and presses gently. With a stab of guilt, he realizes that Cloud is searching for the wounds he suffered that night. Zack is intimately―albeit reluctantly―familiar with the resulting scars. Every time he found a shallow stream, every time Zack pulled Cloud’s shirt over his head…he does not think that he will ever forget the pattern of healed-over skin. 

“Cloud, I’m sorry,” Zack blurts out, the apology failing to ease even a fraction of his regret. “I failed you. I failed all those people. If not for Sephiroth, your home, y-your mom…”

Jerkily, Cloud drops his hand and shakes his head before releasing a grimace of a smile. “You didn’t fail me. Sephiroth did.” He cranes his neck, side-eyeing Zack nigh on cautiously. “I’m glad you were with me, Zack. Anyone else would have left me in the lab.” 

Zack smiles, pleased despite himself, even if he cannot imagine how anyone could leave Cloud behind. “I’d never abandon you, especially not after everything that happened,” he admits, only to quickly add, “Shinra rebuilt it, you know,” when Cloud appears ready to protest, frustration glinting in his eyes. “Nibelheim. It’s like it never burned at all. Like their precious general wasn’t responsible for the genocide of an entire town.” 

“That quickly?” Cloud’s brows furrow, his gaze growing distant. “How long did Shinra have us?”

Zack freezes, fidgeting hand stilling at his knee. Oh, he thinks, mind otherwise blank. “They… Nibelheim burned over four years ago. Almost five.”

Zack remembers the rage that pooled into him as he read Aerith’s final letter, as he realized just how much time had been stolen from them. On the surface, Cloud remains altogether unchanged at hearing the news, but his eyes widen and appear to…catalog Zack. Then, twisting his head at an incremental pace, he looks down at himself and lifts his arms, palms facing upward. 

Cloud has always been on the smaller side for a Shinra infantryman, let alone an aspiring SOLDIER, but the difference is most apparent now that he is in what should be his prime. What muscle he had previously, atrophy notwithstanding, he only retained thanks to the Mako―but the fact remains that he is as slight as ever. It is no wonder, then, that he did not register the scope of time’s passing. 

Zack’s heart bleeds for him: Cloud has, essentially, lost years of potential growth. Of course, now that they are fugitives from Shinra, Cloud will never join the ranks of the Mako-enhanced elite, but Zack knows it to be a blessing in disguise: Cloud does not belong to Shinra anymore and should no longer strive to. Zack’s crumbling dreams aside, there is, after all, no honor left in SOLDIER―Sephiroth saw to it with his parting blow. And Zack… Well, Zack is not a SOLDIER anymore, is he?

Regardless, he knows, has seen it firsthand, that Cloud’s power does not lie in his size or his physical strength. Cloud carries such a quiet conviction within himself―it defeated Sephiroth, and it saved Zack from an unmarked grave. He has never encountered anything quite like it.

Sighing, Cloud lowers his arms, raises his knees, and tucks himself into the space he created. With a pulse of affection, Zack wonders whether Cloud knows that he looks smaller than ever. 

“At least,” Cloud mutters, speaking into the fabric of his pants, “there was no one left to worry about what happened to me.”

And, well, is that not a morbid thought? Unfair, too, especially considering the months Zack spent quite literally worrying over each and every aspect of Cloud’s well-being. “Sure, don’t include me in your count.” Zack reaches over and shoves at his shoulder, nearly bowling him over. “Not like I almost died for you.”

Righting himself, Cloud shoots him a deadpan look. “Thank you, Zack, for getting yourself shot multiple times. I appreciate it, as does the mind I nearly lost.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Zack exclaims, surprised into a laugh. He has only seen glimpses of this acerbic Cloud in the past, but it is frankly refreshing after all the wide-eyed hero worship. Even so, the laugh quickly dies in his throat, throttled by their depressing reality. “You know, I tried to go see my parents,” he confesses after a solemn moment, surprising himself. “Cissnei―one of the Turks―caught me sneaking around in Gongaga.” 

“You escaped?”

Zack shakes his head, leaning back on his arms and disregarding the uncomfortable strain the movement creates. “No, she let us go. And not the first time either. She caught up to us not long after Nibelheim. Pays to have friends in the Turks, turns out.” At Cloud’s little hum, Zack waves a hand, expressing resignation. “She mentioned that they were okay, but…I didn’t get to see them. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see them. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote to them before Nibelheim.” Zack frowns, wondering. “It probably still wouldn’t be safe to reach out now.”

Cloud shifts in place, gaze lowered. “I didn’t write home much either.”

Shaking his head, Zack laughs, unable to stem the bitterness in the sound. “What a sorry pair we make, huh?” he remarks, only for Cloud to respond with a shrug and a frown―it is inexplicably endearing. “Come on, we should get a move on. We may have slacked off, but Aerith wrote me letters this whole time. It seems rude to keep her waiting.” Using the Buster Sword as a crutch, Zack slowly stands, ignoring the agony sparking along his torso, and reaches out to Cloud to help him up. 

“From what you told me of her, I don’t think she’ll be mad,” Cloud says, voice soft. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

Zack smiles, for reacting any other way tastes of treachery. “Hopefully, for our sakes. Let’s get to Midgar before we worry about that.” 

Four fucking years, Zack thinks repeatedly. 

---

Zack does not remember the Midgar slums being so overrun with monsters, nor so dilapidated. By the time he and Cloud tumble through the doors of the church in Sector 5, Zack has both surpassed the brink of exhaustion and amassed a fresh collection of wounds, mostly consisting of bites. Even Cloud, despite Zack’s best efforts to shield him, appears a little rough around the edges.

They should have looted a weapon for Cloud, Zack realizes belatedly as he slams onto the wood floorboards. Predictably, Cloud follows in his wake, knocking into Zack’s shoulder with a grunt. 

When Zack glances up to take stock of their surroundings, the church is, understandably, empty. After all, it is not safe to roam the sectors underneath the Plate after nightfall, so he does not know why he expected anything different. Still, there is just enough light filtering in from the slums to see the path to the altar, illuminating the patch of beautiful, thriving lilies. 

“Come on,” Cloud urges warily, shaking his arm―and only then does Zack register that he is laughing, breathlessly relieved. 

Closing his jaw with a click, Zack nods and shifts to his knees. Forget food, forget curatives―his only desire is to sleep, but the middle of the walkway before a gaping double door is no place for a respite. A wall, at the least, at one of their backs is required. Preferably at Cloud’s. Zack has stood between him and the world for what feels like lifetimes now―such habits require conscious effort to break.

It is becoming nearly impossible to think, so Zack scrapes up the last of his reserves, slams the doors shut behind them, and grabs Cloud’s wrist before slowly crawling toward the leftmost corner, tugging him along. 

“Zack, what―” says a distant voice, but Zack ignores it, eyes fixed on his goal. An eon later, he pulls Cloud down to lie by the wall before plopping down beside him with his back to the nave, the broadsword still attached to its harness the only allowance to his own safety. Zack curls inward, drawn to the familiar warmth. 

With a deep breath, he lets himself descend into oblivion.

---

Zack wakes up, shivering, to darkness. He cannot say where he is, why he finds himself here, or why there is an uncomfortable weight at his back, but it only takes an instant to recognize that the body lying beside him, breathing steadily, is dearly familiar. Whereas Zack is racked with pulses of cold, this man is a beacon of heat, so Zack does not hesitate to shift toward him, burying his head into his torso and wrapping an arm around him.

The man fidgets, seemingly rousing, before he languidly mirrors Zack and attempts to slide an arm around him. When he is met with the obstacle on Zack’s back, he retreats, touching his side instead. Zack cannot help the whimper that escapes him at the added pressure to his midsection, the sound broken. 

In a tender, sleepy motion, the hand at his side rubs back and forth, soothing, before it drifts upward to Zack’s nape, where it stays. Its touch burns Zack’s frozen skin. Moments later, the man’s breathing deepens to its original state.

Zack thinks that he should be remembering something important, that he should be concerned, but everything has been lost to a rapacious, frigid fog. He slips back into it, joining all that has been forgotten. 

---

Zack’s awareness trickles in slowly, filling his mind only partway and leaving him numb. He is lying sideways―partly on a hard floor and partly on something firm but warm―and there is an urgent jostling at his shoulder that knocks him against an unyielding material. It coincides with a faint cadence of…crying? His eyelids are glued shut, but, after a moment, he manages to lift one before promptly wincing away from the unexpected brightness. The jostling stutters to a stop, only to resume its rhythm at an even faster pace. 

“Zack, come on, get off me.”

Resigned to his restless fate, Zack makes the effort to open both eyes and encounters a blur of yellow. When his gaze focuses, the blur coalesces into a face, one precious and utterly lovely. Cloud. Zack knows Cloud. If Cloud was the one to wake him, then he will forgive him the offense. With a dopey smile, Zack leans toward him…and curls in on himself with a gasp when the movement elicits only agony. 

The next thing he knows, Zack is lying on his now unburdened back with two blurs hovering above him―one a comforting yellow, the other a familiar brown―and there is a cool palm resting on his burning forehead. The touch is so gentle that Zack finds himself on the verge of tears. The two angels―for what else could they be?―exchange words, but he cannot parse the conversation through the haze. 

The hand on his forehead lifts and travels to his shoulder, granting it a solid pat. By his ear, a new voice suddenly makes itself known, its words wavering but clear. “Hold on. I’ll return soon.” 

Confused, Zack pinches his eyes shut, not certain what he could hold on to when he is so empty-handed. He does not even have his weapon nearby, which he suspects he should be more concerned about. For a moment, he wonders whether the voice meant that he should hold on to the hand, but it disappears a moment later without so much as a by-your-leave. Bereft, he listens to the fading pitter-patter of what must be feet hitting the floor. 

Zack does not understand why he is alone. He could have sworn that he had someone with him, has always had someone with him. Someone important. Didn’t he?

He opens his eyes as fingers slide into his hair and crane his head up. Something scrapes underneath him, and then his head lowers to rest on something much softer than the floor. The yellow blur is back, close enough now that Zack can almost make out its face, its features upside down. It is speaking to him so softly that Zack cannot understand it at all, but the voice sounds so much like home. With a sigh, he closes his eyes, turning his head to nestle his cheek into the fabric beneath him. 

With startling lucidity, Zack feels the hands in his hair slip out, only for one to return and stroke the exposed side of his head. As the motion loops into infinity, Zack begins to drift, finally able to relax despite the pain throbbing in his torso. He does not know what is happening, but he is suddenly clearheaded enough to understand that this is not right, that he must be injured. The person holding him is either calm because salvation is in sight or because Zack is so far gone that searching for help would be a waste of time. 

Before Zack can be caught in the undertow of his imaginings, he is distracted by a hum, the sweet melody pouring into his ear. It is sung slowly, its chipper notes clashing with the tempo, but Zack is instantly struck by an olfactory memory of feathers and fresh, leafy vegetables. The phantom smells open a door that Zack had not even known had been barred to him.

“Cloud,” Zack whispers with a smile. 

The hand in his hair stills as the song drops off. In protest, Zack nudges his head against Cloud’s lap and then hears what might be a chuckle. It is too faint to be a proper laugh, but, in its shyness, it is far more familiar and thus far more coveted. 

“I knew I should’ve kept looking for another potion.”

Zack lets out a little sound of acknowledgment, barely listening, let alone caring. Perhaps he should not be so cavalier about his own well-being, but Cloud is not only alive, but remarkably cognizant. Even if Zack might be out of commission, Cloud can make up the difference―he will watch over him while he rests. 

Stutteringly, the tune picks back up. The hand is slower to follow, but it, too, eventually resumes its caresses. 

--- 

Zack resurfaces from sleep with an inhale so deep that he promptly breaks into a coughing fit, his body protesting the sudden influx of oxygen. Instinctively, he grabs onto his midsection to stem the incoming agony. His memory is spotty at best―did he imagine someone singing?―but he has not forgotten the scope of his injuries. Thus, it is a shock when his insides do not protest the juddering movement. In fact, aside from an enduring, gnawing hunger, he feels remarkably whole. 

Cautiously, Zack slits open his eyes…only to widen them in shock. Cloud, framed by a vaulted ceiling, hovers over him with blatant concern, but it is the person crouched on his other side, face awash in a healing glow, that steals his attention. 

“Aerith!” 

Gasping, Zack launches himself at the woman, arms spread wide for an embrace. She catches him and teeters to the side with a wet laugh, reeling from the momentum. Eyes burning, he draws her toward his chest and lowers his head into her brown hair. 

Despite the uncertainty, despite the something that continues to edge to the forefront of his mind, Zack is just so blissfully relieved to see her again after months, after years, of separation. Any feelings beyond these―budding ones, dwindling ones―he pockets away into the spaces behind his ribs. Only his surface thoughts are welcome here.

Zack leans back from the embrace, intending to thank her for healing him, when Aerith suddenly slaps at his shoulder. Despite being a light reprimand, it still causes Zack to wince in shame, even if he does appreciate her restraint. Anyone else would have at least gone for the face.

“That’s for never responding to any of my letters,” Aerith clarifies brokenly, wiping at her runaway tears with the Cure materia still clutched in her fingers. As his heart fractures in tune to her gasps, Zack wishes that he had at least a handkerchief to offer her, if only to channel his restless sorrow into tangible action, but his pockets are depressingly empty. 

“Zack, it’s been years, and now you finally show up, half dead… What happened to you? To both of you?”

Aerith’s gaze drifts off to a point over his shoulder, face drawn with grief. Zack follows its lead, only to find Cloud kneeling at an awkward angle, his eyes cast to the floor. When Zack sighs, they flick up and then quickly dart away. “Shinra happened,” Zack replies and then reaches out to Cloud when the latter begins to scoot away―feeling shy, no doubt. Zack longs to nestle him into his and Aerith’s relaxed embrace, but he settles for placing his hand against his upper arm instead, glove to skin. 

“Aerith, this is Cloud. He saved my life.” 

Although he seemingly tries, Cloud cannot hide the fluster the sudden praise inspires, shifting where he kneels. Secure in the knowledge that neither he nor Aerith is looking his way, Zack smiles softly at him, masking it with an exuberant grin not a second later.

“We had a chance to meet already,” Aerith admits and nods at Cloud, who nods warily in return, “but it’s much better under less…dire circumstances.” 

“Thank you for healing him,” Cloud murmurs, after which Zack echoes his own gratitude, pairing it with a side hug from where he still has a hand resting on Aerith’s shoulder. “Did you bring any, uh―” 

“Oh!” Pulling away from Zack, Aerith stretches to reach a satchel sitting on the nearest pew. “Of course. Only a couple things though, since I had to rush.”

Zack’s eyes widen of their own accord at the loaf of bread Aerith digs out of the bag. The bread is followed by a water bottle and, miraculously, an apple, a fruit he has not laid eyes on in literal months. Perhaps rudely, Zack only pauses to rip off his dingy gloves before he snatches the food from Aerith’s hands. He breaks off a moderate piece of the bread and passes both it and the apple to Cloud, who frowns.

“Eat very slowly, and don’t finish it if you don’t think you can,” Zack warns before untwisting the bottle and tending to the thirst he has been willfully ignoring. When the immediate need has been slaked, he pushes the water at Cloud, who huffs at having to juggle three items. After Cloud manages to raise the bottle to his lips―throwing a dirty look―Zack finally tears off a piece for himself, making sure to follow his own advice after popping it into his mouth. A few years ago, he might have pouted at the taste, but now, the rough bread is practically ambrosia. 

Mid chew, Zack pauses, feeling eyes on him. Guardedly, he glances up to find Aerith sporting perhaps the most pitying expression he has ever seen on her. He shrugs, smiling to hide his humiliation, and refocuses on his meal. He can already feel his stomach distending uncomfortably, unused to the heavier fare, but he soldiers on. After all, good food is surely the way to recover from his months-long ordeal. With weeks of regular meals, he should soon feel like himself again―that is, whatever it means to be Zack Fair these days.

As Zack carefully works through his bread, Aerith resettles and waits patiently, keeping her serene gaze aimed at her sun-drenched garden. Zack cannot help but steal glances at her. If she notices his attention, then she does not seem to mind it, unfazed by even the timorous sounds of the apple crunching nearby. She, he realizes with a pang, is still wearing the hair tie he bought her. Just like them, she looks older; unlike them, she looks wiser. Less susceptible to silly boys falling through ceilings, perhaps. 

Startled by a touch at his knee, Zack looks down to see a hand offering a half eaten apple. When Zack does not react, it shakes, persistent. Wary, he attempts to catch Cloud’s eye, but the blond does not even deign to turn his way. Helpless to the something blooming in his heart, Zack relents, tapping Cloud’s forearm in thanks before carefully lifting the apple from his grasp.

Perhaps noticing the movement, Aerith shifts back to face them and offers an encouraging smile, which only deepens when she takes notice of his laden hand. Unwittingly, Zack curls his fingers around the skin of the fruit, tucking it toward himself. With the something once more at the forefront of his mind, all the clandestine thoughts he had locked away wriggle their way past his defenses. 

A pair of lovers wouldn’t reunite like this, they say, reeking of guilt. The reality of it weighs on him like a condemnation. 

“Aerith, I’m so sorry for everything,” he rasps out, folding a secret apology into the final word. Ultimately, he feels the most remorse for the lack of regret. Zack has lost so much, but he cannot stand to lose what he has gained, even if he must, for now, keep the truth of it close to his chest. “I’m sorry for being gone, and for not writing, and for―” 

“Zack, stop, you don’t have to do that,” Aerith interrupts, raising her palms as though to stem any further apologies, but Zack shakes his head. 

“No, I really do,” he disagrees, only to quietly add, “But I’ll stop,” when Aerith’s brows furrow with indignation. 

“Good. None of that now. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” She makes a beckoning gesture, expression softening. “Tell me what happened instead.” 

“Y-yeah,” Zack murmurs, humbled in the face of Aerith’s easy forgiveness. “Yeah, I guess I can do that. Um, before, when we talked last, I couldn’t tell you where I was ‘cause the mission was confidential, but after… I wasn’t really able to contact anyone.” 

“Were you attacked by monsters?” Aerith hedges, eyeing Zack’s ripped uniform. “I’ve only seen wounds like that on people who wandered into the dangerous parts of the slums.”

Hesitating, Zack darts a look at Cloud, who frowns before nodding pointedly at the apple. Rolling his eyes, Zack bites off the most obnoxious chunk of the fruit as possible. He promptly chokes as its juices fill his mouth. 

“Only at the end,” Cloud replies, sparing Zack an amused glance as he struggles with his regrettably large mouthful. “Before that, an army of Shinra soldiers almost murdered him.” 

Funny―at the time, Zack had not thought of it as “murder.” “Execution” seemed more fitting. “That was after months of them chasing us,” Zack clarifies, wiping at his mouth. “Almost five years ago, Shinra deployed us, Sephiroth, and a few infantrymen to Nibelheim to inspect their Mako reactor.” 

As Zack recounts their history, Aerith’s expression hardens, growing ever grimmer. When he describes Sephiroth’s mysterious and abrupt descent into madness, he wonders whether this might be exactly the reason why Shinra was so determined to gun Zack down, lest he spread what happened to their poster-boy general, as well as everything else they must be keeping from the public eye. For her sake, he remains light on the details, loath to burden her with sensitive information, let alone reveal the scope of his suffering. As such, he largely skips over their years in the Shinra mansion’s lab, partially out of necessity and partially out of capacity. By all accounts, he remembers more of their internment than Cloud, but even what he retains have mostly diffused into flashing visions and echoes of agony. 

Sometime midway into Zack’s ramblings, Cloud stands and wanders off, inspecting the church as he goes. Concerned, Zack tracks his movements, but eventually decides to let him be. While it might benefit him to hear what he has missed, revisiting their journey at this juncture might do more harm than good. So, keeping a sharp ear attuned to his friend, Zack picks up where he left off, detailing their escape from Nibelheim. 

Then, when Zack finally arrives at the cliff overlooking Midgar, he finds himself scattered and blathering, having to double back several times to map out anything resembling sense. If Aerith does not follow his speech, then she is at least kind enough not to voice it. As he stutters, she reaches out and takes his hand, which she envelops in both of her own. The touch grounds him: although it brings little clarity to his words, he is at least able to continue. 

After his words cease, Zack realizes that he is crying―but he does not fully understand why. Despite everything Shinra put him through, Zack, after all, survived. Cloud is both safe and healing from the Mako. Aerith has clearly not forgotten him, and even his parents are still alive and well. What is there to cry about? 

Distracted by his uncanny grief, Zack startles as Aerith draws him into a one-sided embrace, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a reminiscence of older days. She means to comfort, but the missed familiarity of human contact only serves to disquiet him further, forcing Zack to momentarily hide his face before he hurries to wipe the tears from his cheeks. 

“Sorry. This must―” Zack hiccups, flushing in embarrassment. “Must’ve been building up for a while. Guess Shinra took more outta me than I thought.” Didn’t take everything though, he thinks as he glances up in search of Cloud, needing to confirm his proximity. Seemingly lost in thought, the blond sits on a distant pew, enthralled by a stained glass window. Somehow, that sight alone is enough to stopper Zack’s tears altogether.

“Don’t apologize, Zack. I already told you: there’s nothing to forgive,” Aerith whispers, voice unsteady. “I’m just happy you’re alive. It’s only natural that you didn’t come back the same.”

“I’m not that different,” Zack protests, unable to shake the notion that he is being accused. And yet, she is not wholly wrong, is she? Would his past self have burst into tears from a simple hug, or banished those same tears with a single glance Cloud’s way? Still…it would not do to burden Aerith with this realization, not when he himself has barely begun to understand its implications. “But really, Aerith, don’t worry about me. I’m probably just tired,” he mutters with a sniffle, patting her arm. 

Thankfully, Aerith takes the hint and sits back, granting him some breathing space. “I’m never not going to worry, but okay. But also―” She raises her hand, index finger extended menacingly. “―I still don’t want to hear any more apologies from you, got it?” 

Staring cross-eyed at her finger, Zack does not hesitate to nod, at which Aerith relaxes into a sweet smile, dropping her hand. 

“Good. So, what do you plan on doing now?” 

And that is the question, isn’t it? Zack has been planning their lives on the basis of one destination, pinning their hopes on Midgar, on Aerith. Yet, now that they have finally arrived, he feels…lost. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “We need to avoid Shinra, obviously, and I need to― Hell, I think I need to find a job.” 

No longer employed by Shinra, Zack does not have a stipend to fall back on, and he cannot rely on Aerith’s hospitality forever. There is always mercenary work, that suggestion of a dream he offered to a kind but nosy truck driver, but the idea does not sit well with him. If they are to remain under Shinra’s radar, it seems ill-advised to pursue it. While they left no witnesses to their escape, the lack of evidence of their own demise will undoubtedly cause Shinra to suspect their survival. Therefore, an unassuming job, somewhere out of the way, would be safest.

“We can start figuring that out tomorrow,” Aerith offers gently and motions with her hand, palm-side up. “Small steps, okay? What do you need today?” 

Zack crosses his arms and tilts his head, glancing around the nave as he ponders. His gaze catches on the Buster Sword resting by the wall, and he exhales in surprise, not having even realized that he had misplaced it―or, rather, had it removed, seemingly when he was addled by delirium. It seems…out of place in such holy surroundings, but, he supposes, he himself does not especially belong here either―not after all the blood he spilled.

“Zack?”

Jolting, Zack looks back at Aerith―who watches him all too shrewdly―and promptly clears his throat. “Sorry, got lost in thought. I, ah, suppose we could do with some basic supplies. We don’t need much,” he hastens to add, waving his hands, “but even just more water. A little more food. Maybe some soap, if you have some.” The last is said with a scrunched nose―he is all too aware of what they smell like. 

Clearly trying to save his dignity, Aerith stifles a giggle and nods. “I can do that,” she confirms, only to sober with a worried frown. “I’d offer to let you stay at mine, but my mom might not…”

“N-no, that’s okay,” Zack reassures, reluctant to drag Aerith’s mother―who never especially liked him―into their troubles. Besides, the fewer who know about their situation, the better. Still, if they are to squat in the church for the time being, then one or two more basic comforts would not go amiss. Case in point, Zack thinks as he glances down at his shirt, plucking at the ruined, blood-stained fabric. Aerith would not likely own any clothes that would fit him, but… “Hey, if you happen to have a spare jacket around, just to cover this, could I borrow it?”

Sucking in her lips with a hum, Aerith reaches out and tugs at the shirt. “I might, but it’d probably be too small. I’ll see what I can do. Oh, and―” She eyes his pants, no doubt noticing the bullet-made tears in the black fabric. “―I can bring you a sewing kit, too. You can’t really see the blood on these, so you wouldn’t attract too much attention if you kept them.” 

“Thanks,” he replies with a grin, appreciating her practicality. It has been a while since he was forced to mend his own clothes as a new recruit, but between him and Cloud, he is almost certain that they can sort it out. “I’ll pay you back for everything, I promise.”

Smiling sweetly, Aerith tosses her head from side to side. “We’ll see,” she intones ominously before rising and smoothing out her dress. “Well, I better not waste daylight! I’ll be as quick as I can. Don’t go anywhere?”

“Of course not. We’ll be here,” Zack promises, standing to match her despite the weakness in his knees. 

When Aerith, green eyes shining, leans in, Zack fears that she is expecting a kiss, but, in the next moment, she simply slides her arms around his waist and squeezes. Dumbfounded, he returns the gesture, plopping his chin on top of her head with relief, to which she giggles into his chest and playfully pushes him away. 

“Alright, I’ll see you soon!” With that, Aerith strides off down the aisle, calling a friendly goodbye to Cloud on her way out. Shaking his head in wonder, Zack follows her path and then pivots to meander alongside the pew that Cloud claimed. 

“I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve her,” Zack confides as he nears his friend. When Cloud does not reply, let alone acknowledge him, he crowds in closer, ducking to catch his attention. “Cloud? You doing okay?”

“You doing okay,” Cloud repeats dutifully, expression shuttered and limbs listless. 

Breath hitched, Zack shoots out an arm and shakes Cloud roughly by the shoulder, gasping out his name. 

With a soft grunt, Cloud blinks in quick succession and then screws his eyes shut, lifting a hand to his temple. Searching Cloud’s face for any signs of relapse, Zack lowers himself to the pew, trusting that the wood will be there to catch him. Cloud, in turn, remains eerily still, his harsh breaths and minute twitches of his brows the only movements betraying his consciousness. 

“Sunshine?”

Cloud opens his eyes and inhales, blinking rapidly once more. He begins to track their surroundings, pupils dilating at every new detail, until his gaze finally lands on Zack, his confusion painfully evident. 

“Where did Aerith go?” 

Unwittingly, Zack tightens his grip on Cloud’s shoulder, only to force himself to relax, loath to exacerbate the situation with panic. “She left just a second ago,” he answers, repeating to himself that, if Cloud can yet ask questions, then he is not lost to him. “She’s going to get some supplies for us.”

“Okay.” Cloud pauses, glances down, and taps a finger against the pew. “When did I…get here?” 

“A while back. Maybe twenty minutes or so.” Ignoring the sirens that continue to blare in his mind, Zack steels himself and asks, “Cloud, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“You were telling Aerith about Nibelheim and being captured. I’d just finished eating,” Cloud answers readily, meeting his probing gaze. “Did I really just walk away?” When Zack nods somberly in reply, he bites his lip, drops his head into his hands, and massages his temples. “I don’t remember doing that.” 

This, Zack realizes with dismay, must be the effects of the Mako poisoning. Perhaps it was foolish to assume that Cloud made a full recovery solely because he had regained consciousness, but Zack’s knowledge of the chemical is admittedly limited. There were rumors among the Third- and Second-Class SOLDIERs that the Mako treatments did not always take; that, even though a candidate’s performance was promising, it meant nothing if one was susceptible to Mako. However, none of his cohort or his superiors had ever mentioned side effects like memory loss or dissociation. Is this yet another secret Shinra is determined to keep hidden? 

Or, perhaps it is not the result of the Mako at all, but of the drain of the last few years. Shinra never particularly cared about the well-being of its cannon fodder―not even its SOLDIERs―but Angeal had been far more doting. Zack vaguely recalls him explaining something called combat fatigue, a phenomenon wherein soldiers could no longer stomach the horrors of war, retreating into themselves to escape it. Zack has never witnessed said condition firsthand, but, if Cloud might be suffering from it, then the very least he can do is offer him solace. 

Thus, careful to move slowly in case Cloud is not in the mood for contact, Zack shifts his hand from his shoulder to draw him into his side, arm resting along the blond’s upper back. When Cloud does not resist, Zack presses him just a tad closer, surrendering to a selfish impulse. 

“It could’ve been your body trying to protect you from everything that’s happened,” Zack murmurs, stroking a thumb against Cloud’s upper arm. “We’ve…been through a lot, and I was just repeating it all.” 

Dropping his hands, Cloud shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I was just sleepwalking. I’m not sure.” Side-eyeing Zack, he mutters, “You said Aerith went to get supplies? Am I staying here?”

“We both are,” Zack confirms, willing to drop the subject for now if only because he does not dare push―well, and because he cannot refrain from correcting him, perplexed as to why Cloud would assume he would abandon him after all they have been through together. “Hope you won’t mind me as a roommate, sunshine! Anyway, not like we can afford anything else right now, but we can start figuring that out tomorrow. In the meantime, we just have to hope Aerith is nice enough to feed us through breakfast.” Outwardly, Zack grins with confidence; inwardly, he rations the remains of the bread she had brought―it should last them at least until morning.

Cloud snorts quietly, rolling his eyes. “I doubt she’d spend all that energy healing you just to let you starve.” 

“You don’t know that!” Zack playfully exclaims. “I did leave her in the lurch for years. I’d be pretty upset, if I was her.” 

“I think you had a good excuse,” Cloud reasons, shrugging and nearly dislodging Zack’s arm.

Undoubtedly, but Zack is far too accustomed to being the one providing for them: even if he knows that they can trust Aerith, he would feel much more at ease knowing that they have a back-up plan. As such, Zack simply smiles in lieu of a response, and, without a contribution from him, the conversation falls to the wayside. 

Oddly unbothered by the quiet, Zack reclines against the back of the pew and proceeds to glance around the nave with curiosity. Despite its state of disrepair, the church, he realizes, truly is beautiful. He never appreciated it when he was younger, too focused on monopolizing Aerith’s attention, but the rays of light filtering through the fractured roof to the bed of lilies, framed by stately columns, is quite a sight. It is not an inn with feather-stuffed pillows and room service, but it will do them just fine. 

They, too, will be fine―as will Cloud. Zack will accept nothing less. 

“You’ll be fine, Cloud,” Zack repeats out loud, mostly for his own sake. “You probably just need rest, but we’ll keep an eye on you until we’re sure you’re okay. For now, just take it easy.” 

On a whim, Zack lifts his arm from Cloud’s shoulders, intending to ruffle his hair, but the moment Zack feels the soft spikes under his fingers, Cloud jolts forward and out of his reach. As one, they freeze, Zack’s hand hovering in the air above Cloud’s tense back. Then, with a strained laugh, he retracts his hand and threads it into his own hair. He cannot help the pang of hurt nicking at his heart, but he can hardly protest if Cloud needs to preserve some personal space. Still, he himself would not mind some space of his own right now. 

Standing, Zack clears his throat and says, “I’m gonna go look around in the back―or nap, or something,” before awkwardly shuffling away. He has only just approached the end of the row when he hears a scuffle of hurried feet behind him. 

“Zack, wait.” 

Heedful of keeping his expression in check, Zack turns around, only to startle as Cloud clutches his forearm upon reaching him, eyes inordinately wild. “Whoa, um, what’s up, sunshine?” 

“Sorry, it’s just―” Cloud glances down and promptly releases Zack’s arm, his harried expression clearing. “Just… Zack, the last time you did that was before you almost died.” 

For a moment, Zack stands between a brink and the end of a rifle, but, in the next, he finds himself once more in the nave of a sunlit church, safe and unharmed, albeit strangely unbalanced. “I didn’t though,” he argues, blinking away the vision until his breathing evens out and the feeling dissipates. “And I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.” 

Cloud narrows his eyes. “Not until the next time you decide to sacrifice yourself, you mean.” 

You don’t miss a thing, do you, sunshine?

“Well, if that’s the case,” Zack exclaims, propping his fists against his hips and leaning forward, “you’re just gonna have to save me again!” Then, before Cloud can wriggle away, Zack reaches out with both hands, makes an utter mess of his hair, and swiftly retreats.

Chuckling, Zack decides that he does, indeed, deserve the swears Cloud flings in his wake.

--- 

If the back rooms of the church were intended to suit a specific purpose―living quarters for the staff, for instance―then they do not reflect this. In fact, it would be more accurate to call the space a single chamber as a result of a gigantic, metal monstrosity jutting in from the outside. Zack guesses that it must have been a support column at one point―until it broke off and speared through not only the wall, but also the floor of the second level. Even in the growing twilight, he can see all the way to the vaulted ceiling. It leaves him cursing Shinra under his breath. The slums are already a dangerous place to reside in: its citizens should not have to watch out for debris falling on them in addition to everything else.

The stairs, at least, are mostly intact. Should they need to make a quick escape, they could leave through the roof, even if, Zack realizes with a squint, they might need to cross the metal spire to reach it.

“These are empty,” Cloud calls from inspecting a couple of barrels tucked into the corner.

“Honestly, sunshine, I kind of expected that,” Zack admits and then laughs when Cloud lifts his head from the rim of the barrel to give him a deadpan look. 

Giving the space up as a lost cause, Zack ambles out to the nave and darts a glance at what he has deemed their corner, tempted to take another nap. When Zack had mentioned doing so to Cloud earlier, he had spoken solely to escape the awkward situation, but voicing the possibility of sleep must have alerted his body to the need. Exhausted, he surrendered without hesitation, expecting Cloud to prod him should anything come up. In the end, he woke only a couple of hours later to a rapid heartbeat and disturbingly empty arms, feeling as though he never rested at all. He also cannot imagine that it helped that he made no effort to be comfortable, so inured to wearing his armor even while sleeping that it had not crossed his mind to remove it. Something about that strikes him as profoundly sad. 

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Zack makes his way to the door on the other side of the altar, scouring his memory for any indication of where it leads. When he draws a blank, he shrugs and reaches out for the handle, which gives way after a bit of jostling to reveal a much smaller chamber. Although emptier than the previous space, it harbors a far more exciting prospect: a sink standing in the center of the room. Well, Zack suspects that calling it something so trivial might count as a sacrilege. Given its delicate construction―its porcelain, scallop-shaped basin held by a metal base of curlicues―it must be a font for holy water. 

When Zack senses the loaded silence hovering behind his shoulder, he asks, “What do you think? Is it wrong to drink holy water?” Without waiting for an answer, Zack steps up to the basin and begins to fiddle with the tarnished, silver tap. Valiantly, the faucet sputters out a few squirts of water before dying a hero’s death.

Zack closes the tap with a huff. “The gods have spoken.” 

Having hung back, Cloud leaves the doorway to join him and proceeds to scrutinize their dilemma, trying the tap for himself. Again, the faucet sputters weakly. Instead of stemming the flow, Cloud twists the knob to full blast and steps away from the basin. “Leave that on,” he warns. 

Curious, Zack watches as Cloud slowly creeps farther into the room, one ear angled toward the ground, seemingly listening. After a few moments, he stops, crouches, and places his cheek against the floor. 

“Found something?” 

“I think so,” Cloud murmurs. “Help me with this.” 

Together, they carefully pry back the wood floorboard, revealing a crawl space with a length of piping within. To Zack, it looks perfectly innocuous, but Cloud examines it with an undercurrent of triumph. Distracted by the rare expression, Zack completely misses the church’s front doors opening, but he does catch the sound of small wheels rolling across uneven ground. 

“Hellooo!” Aerith calls in a lilting tone. 

“Hey!” Zack bounces back to his feet, pretends like he meant to sway upon standing upright, and rushes to the open door before Cloud can call him out on the near fall. “We’re just in here,” he adds unnecessarily, hanging on to the jamb and putting all his weight on it. “Oh, whoa! You kept that?”

Aerith, a staff strapped to her back, is tugging along the flower cart, laden with supplies, that they made together so many years ago. Although it carries marks of use, it appears well cared for, and Zack cannot help but smile at the fact. His younger self was sure eager to please, he thinks, remembering the trouble he went through to build it to her liking. 

“Of course I did!” Aerith answers brightly. “I always use it when I have a bigger stock―or when I need to lug some things to a couple of lazy soldiers,” she adds slyly, leaving the cart by the flower bed before strolling up to Zack. “Oh, you found the water basin?” She peeks around him, leaning sideways. “I haven’t been able to get that to work in a while. It’s made watering the flowers a real pain.” 

Zack cranes his head over his shoulder, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cloud rises from the floor and walks to the basin. 

“Do you have some tools I could borrow?” Cloud asks. Delighted, Zack turns all the way around to see the blond shutting off the tap. 

“Yes, I can bring them over in the morning,” Aerith answers, eyes creasing, and then beckons them back toward the nave. “For now, let me show you what I brought.” 

As they rifle through the cart, Zack quickly realizes that Aerith went above and beyond to accommodate them. While he does spot the requested soap and offered sewing kit, there is also an assortment of goods he definitely had not asked for. Just from a cursory glance, he spots two blankets, a towel, a battery-powered lantern―which Aerith switches on with a flourish―a few jars of water, a pot of something that smells enticing, and what Zack suspects might be a few gil tucked away into a pouch. 

“Aerith, I think you might be a saint,” Zack mutters, sharing a glance with Cloud, who looks equally torn between discomfort and gratitude. 

“Oh, nonsense. Basic decency doesn’t qualify you for sainthood! Anyway, it’s the least I can do since I can’t open my home to you. And―” Darting a stern look Zack’s way, Aerith drops down to the cart and starts sorting through the blankets. “―before you go blubbering about paying me back, I already had most of these things.” 

Zack tilts his head, eyeing the pile. “Sure you did. Still, thank you,” he says, braiding as much sincerity into the words as possible. Cloud echoes him, tone soft. 

Not pausing in her search, Aerith glances up at both of them and smiles sweetly before removing something from the blankets. “Here we go. I didn’t own any jackets that were big enough, but I found these in the market for cheap. They’re not much, but…” Shrugging, she passes the stack to Zack, who unfolds it to reveal two simple, short-sleeved shirts. 

“The blue one is smaller,” Aerith adds helpfully before Zack has a chance to ask Cloud whether he prefers blue or black. 

“Ha!” Zack balls up the blue shirt and tosses it at Cloud’s face. “Your plan to get me into tight clothing has been thwarted, Aerith,” he quips, ignoring Cloud’s expletives. 

“Dummy,” Aerith says simply, shaking her head. “Here, take this, too.” She holds out, of all things, a black wristwatch, a line of green numbers glowing on its face. “I know it seems silly, but it’s harder to keep track of time down here. Thought you might appreciate it.” 

Zack does, is the thing. In the wilderness, he could easily approximate the hour by the sun or moon, but it is far trickier down here in the gloom, the beams of sunlight slipping into the church notwithstanding. He takes the watch with a grateful nod, pauses, and then wordlessly hands it to Cloud with a meaningful look. Cloud wandered away and found himself elsewhere, losing minutes―if anyone could use a watch, it is him. Seemingly agreeing, Cloud frowns but dutifully buckles it to his wrist. 

That sorted, Zack turns back to Aerith, who has since pulled out a couple of bowls from the cart and is busying herself with the pot. “I suppose you just had two spare blankets lying around?” he asks skeptically. 

Aerith just hums and lifts the lid, letting loose a billow of steam. Zack’s mouth fills with saliva, his stomach wagging at the prospect of food. He has not touched their stash of bread since earlier, too accustomed to rationing supplies. Beside him, Cloud shifts impatiently, fingers digging into his thighs with―Zack notes mournfully―palpable hunger. 

“It’s mostly broth,” Aerith explains, “with some vegetables and egg whites.” She flicks her gaze up at Zack before focusing on dipping a bowl into the pot. “Easy on the stomach.” 

“Appreciated,” Zack says, thankful that she clued into their situation and is taking it in stride. 

As though reading Zack’s mind, Aerith serves Cloud first, handing him the bowl with care, before putting one together for Zack. It takes everything in him not to snatch it out of her hands like a rabid animal, eager to dive in headfirst, but he manages to accept it calmly before bringing it to his lips. The taste, savory with a perfect hint of salty, instantly overwhelms him, traveling from his tongue to the very tips of his extremities. Just one gulp leaves him feeling stronger; he would not be shocked if Aerith had laced the broth with a healing potion.

“You aren’t having any?” Cloud asks, mouth barely raised from the lip of his bowl.

With an unimpressed look, Aerith shakes her head. “I’ve eaten. Besides, I made this for you, so eat up.” 

“Yeah, sunshine,” Zack nags, nudging at Cloud and almost upending their bowls, “don’t insult Aerith’s great cooking. Eat it all.” Just in case, he shoots a surreptitious glance at Cloud’s share before concluding that it should not make him sick if he downs the whole thing.

“I wasn’t,” Cloud grumbles but immediately quiets, occupied with his soup. 

Aerith giggles and waves a benevolent hand before rising to her feet. “You’re both welcome.” 

“You’re going?” Zack asks, lowering his bowl in anticipation.

Aerith nods and slips the staff from her back into her hand. “I need to get back home before the monsters get too hungry. And no,” she adds, eyeing Zack starting to shift onto his knees with exasperation, “I don’t need an escort.” 

“You sure?” Zack plops back down, secretly thankful for the chance to rest. 

“Completely. I’ve been living down here all my life. I’ll see you two in the morning, okay? You can keep this until then,” she says with a smile, pointing at the cart. Then, before Zack can respond, Aerith steps over to his side, dips down, and kisses the top of his head. 

Zack blinks. By the time he gathers himself, Aerith is already halfway down the aisle. “Yeah, see you,” he calls weakly, to which she gives a friendly backward wave. 

Determined not to feel awkward, Zack glances at Cloud, whose nose is so far into his bowl that he is at risk of drowning. “You want some bread?” he offers, realizing that Cloud will only notice that something is off if Zack reveals that it is.

“Please. Just a little though.”

“You got it,” Zack says and then crawls over to the satchel Aerith left for them this morning.

The rest of the meal goes by in silence, both men too engrossed in their food to chitchat. Zack does not even need to remind Cloud to eat slowly―as soon as the immediate hunger is sated, it grows harder to fill their bellies without discomfort. Zack only just manages to finish his own portion, but Cloud leaves the rest of his bread for later. It is not ideal, but Zack knows it is safer to pace oneself.

Once they are finished, Zack grabs both bowls and one of the jars of water and heads into the “washroom.” At the sink, he splashes some water into the bowls―just enough to rinse out the clinging broth―and then watches as it slowly drains. Tilting his head, he reaches into the basin and pushes down on the metal jutting out above the flange. As he suspected, something pops up from behind the faucet as the drain plugs up. With a happy hum, Zack pours out a generous amount of water into the basin before leaving the chamber. 

Out in the nave, Cloud appears to be busying himself with sorting through the supplies, kneeling by the pew closest to their corner. So far, he has placed the glowing lantern on the bench, as well as the pot and the remaining half of the bread. Heading his way, Zack first stops off at the cart, shifting the bowls to one hand as he grabs the towel, soap, and the blue shirt with the other. He wanders over to the pew, deposits the bowls by the pot, and then thrusts the pile at Cloud, who recoils at the sudden intrusion. 

“Washroom’s yours!” Zack sing-songs, pointing a thumb behind him for added emphasis. Expression blank, Cloud looks between the pile and the washroom a few times before tentatively accepting the offerings and leaving to get himself cleaned up.

That settled, Zack grabs one of the blankets and lugs it over to their corner. It is not as thick as he would have liked, but it will do as a pallet. Given that they have been sleeping on the unforgiving ground these past months, he has absolutely no complaints―not to mention that the second blanket will keep out any chill the Mako cannot quell. He truly does not know what he has done to deserve Aerith. 

Zack is just about ready to double back for said blanket when he catches sight of himself, still adorned in armor. Not willing to repeat the results of his earlier nap, he unbuckles the straps to remove his pauldrons and the waist cuirass. That done, he kneels to remove his boots and socks. Along their journey, he took every opportunity to air out his feet, too traumatized by the horror stories his fellow soldiers had spread about the consequences of keeping one’s boots on for days on end. Unfortunately, out in the wilderness, it had been often either too cold or Shinra had been too near to risk it. Now that they have a semblance of safety, Zack is going to clutch onto every opportunity he can find for a taste of normalcy. 

Still, loath to be caught unawares, Zack leans over and tugs the Buster Sword until it lies within reach of the makeshift bed. As he adjusts the weapon’s position, he hears the click of a door opening. Glancing up, he encounters a bleary-eyed but much cleaner-looking Cloud, all soft around the edges without his armor. The blue fabric complements his eyes, Zack realizes with no lack of wonder. 

“Your turn,” Cloud mutters through a yawn.

Nodding, Zack grabs his own change of clothes and heads into the washroom, nudging the door closed behind him. Without the lantern’s light, he can only just make out the outline of the basin, but he manages not to trip as he creeps over, one hand raised to catch the brim. Upon reaching it, he wriggles out of his shirt, eager to be rid of it. While his pants are salvageable―despite needing a thorough scrubbing―the uniform top is, by all accounts, ruined. Even if he made the effort to mend it, the stains would garner too much attention, as would the way it screams SOLDIER. His armor, too, is a flashing sign; he cannot go around parading in it underneath the Plate, let alone above it. Although it will be unpleasant to walk around thus exposed, he will not likely have a choice―not if he wants to protect their cover.

Stifling his own yawn, Zack makes quick work of slewing off the dried blood and days of sweat. As he runs a hand along his skin, he notes the lack of bullet scars, no doubt a result of Cloud’s swift thinking, before he forcibly casts the observation aside and refocuses on washing. Once he finishes, reeling at what a difference soap and a fresh shirt can make, he takes the towel out with him with the intention of drying it outside. 

Back in the nave, Cloud sits on the pew bearing their supplies, pouch in one hand and a handful of coins in another. “After all that, she left us some money.” He bites his lip, brows furrowing. “Twenty gil.”

Caught between delight and frustration, Zack shakes his head with a wry smile and hangs the used towel over the back of the pew. “I thought as much. We’ll pay her back later, I promise. For now―” He breaks off, yawning widely. “―let’s just sleep.”

Expecting Cloud to grab the second blanket, Zack walks over to their corner, his joints threatening to buckle, and drops down onto the pallet. The blanket twists under his knees, so he busies himself with smoothing it out, absently listening to the telltale shuffling behind him. When he finally raises his head, confused as to what is taking Cloud so long, he freezes, eyes drawn to the blond spreading a blanket out by the flower bed, alarmingly out of reach. 

“What are you doing?” Zack demands, horrified. 

Cloud shoots him a quick look, frowning. “Preparing for bed?” 

Zack pauses, his brain making a few rapid-fire calculations. Cloud, as far as Zack understands it, has not been lucid throughout most of their journey together. Therefore, Cloud would not necessarily expect them to sleep side by side and might, in fact, be uncomfortable with doing so. Through a haze, Zack recalls clinging onto him the night before, but he cannot say whether Cloud requited the embrace. 

The problem, however, is that, if Cloud is prone to losing time, then what is to say that he will not wander away again in the middle of the night? And, if Zack is not nearby, then what is the likelihood that he would notice before something happened to him? No, even if it might test the boundaries of Cloud’s patience, Zack knows that he cannot make that gamble. Cloud being stolen away from him has featured in far too many of his nightmares to risk it. 

Thus, Zack plasters a playful grin onto his face and reaches for the first excuse he can think of. “Sunshine,” he whines, “you’ve spoiled me for months with nightly cuddles! Are you really gonna deprive me of that?” 

Cloud lets out a quiet laugh and sits back on his heels. “If I knew you were going to cry about it, I wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” To Zack’s befuddled relief, he immediately bundles the blanket into his arms and proceeds to walk over, switching off the lantern on the way.

“You know me,” Zack drawls. Crossing his arms under his head, he plops onto the pallet, grinning at how easy it was to coax Cloud back to his side. “Crying until I get what I want.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” Cloud mutters. He plonks the second blanket on top of Zack, who groans when it lands on his face but does not tarry in straightening it out, lest Cloud change his mind. As soon as Zack settles by the wall, Cloud crawls under the covers and shifts onto his side, facing the room. 

“Sure it does―I complain all the time,” Zack quips before scooting toward Cloud. For all his fears, Zack hesitates upon reaching out, knowing that it would be kinder to maintain a distance between them―kinder to himself as well. After all, the last time Zack touched him without warning, Cloud tensed and jerked away; he would rather not revisit that experience.

Then, just as Zack decides to remain where he is, he senses movement: a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. When he raises his gaze, Cloud’s back faces him, but Zack is certain that he did not imagine the Mako glow. Cautiously, he begins to slip an arm around Cloud’s waist, granting him enough time to scurry away should he wish to.

Instead, Cloud relaxes into the embrace and proceeds to curl both arms into his chest, trapping Zack’s hand underneath them. Overwhelmed, Zack screws his eyes shut, feeling as though the air has been punched from his lungs. This moment is incomparable to all the previous times they have shared a sleeping space. It speaks nothing of slack limbs or nearly imperceptible inhales. This, Zack realizes with wonder, is what he fought for. 

“Night, Zack.”

“G’night.” In the cloaking darkness of the church, Zack nestles his forehead against the nape of Cloud’s neck, closes his eyes, and breathes.

He sleeps.